A Book of American Martyrs(114)

Both Augustus Voorhees and Timothy Barron, as witnesses attested, had “begged for their lives”—yet he had killed them.

Witnesses had remarked upon his lack of emotion. And, in the courtroom, over the course of his trial it was clear that he felt no remorse for his heinous crimes but rather a kind of pride.

“This sentence will send a clear signal to any individuals who believe that they might flout, defy, or violate the laws of the State of Ohio and of the United States of America for reasons of faith or ideology. The court will not tolerate such and will punish to the limit of the law such infractions. Luther Dunphy, you are hereby sentenced to incarceration in the Chillicothe State Correctional Institution for Men where you will be put to death by lethal injection at a time to be determined.”

Luther’s lawyer gripped his hand to steady not Luther but himself.

No jurors were present in the courtroom this morning. Very few individuals were present. Court officers, staff. There was a brisk air to the proceedings. Luther was waiting for the judge to say more but already the judge was exiting the room. How swiftly everything was happening, that had happened so slowly for months—this did not seem right.

Already Luther was being gripped by guards, to be led away. Startled, he saw that his brothers Norman and Jonathan were in the courtroom, staring at him aghast. He had not noticed them before—had he? Wanly he lifted a hand to them, a brotherly gesture both abashed and reassuring—Don’t worry! It will never happen. This is a test of God. Have faith.


AFTERWARD HE WOULD REALIZE that the second trial had been shorter than the first trial. Fewer “character” witnesses had spoken on his behalf. The ex-priest Stockard had not been present and had not testified. Luther’s friend.





BAD NEWS


News came to them in Mad River Junction.

At first Edna Mae didn’t recognize the name. The raw-sounding voice.

Luther’s public-defender lawyer was calling. The eager anxious young man with whom she’d exchanged awkward remarks a year before whose face and name she had entirely forgotten.

He was saying it was not good news. He was calling her Mrs. Dunphy.

He was telling her that the judge had not seemed to find “mitigating” factors in the case. That the judge had sentenced her husband to death.

Death? Edna Mae did not understand.

So still was Edna Mae, standing with the receiver in her hand, so blank her expression, Mary Kay Mack quickly took the receiver from her.

She asked: “Can he—can you—appeal?”

The lawyer told her yes. In death penalty cases, an appeal is axiomatic.

And so yes, he could appeal on Luther’s behalf, and he would. Except— “Yes? What?”

Except they should be prepared for the sentence to remain, he said. For the judge had been careful in his handling of the trial, highly professional, scrupulous. He’d been well aware of the controversial nature of the case and that an appeal was likely . . .

“Oh. My God.”

Mary Kay made a sound like sobbing—a harsh hacking sound, surprising in one so usually jocose and breezy.

Still Edna Mae stood close by, unmoving, as if she’d wandered into the kitchen for no particular reason, or had forgotten the reason.

As Mary Kay continued to speak on the phone at some length in a lowered voice, a voice of incredulity, astonishment, dread, the younger children came into the kitchen as if they’d been called—(of course they had not been called)—and Dawn ran into the kitchen breathless and terrified as if she’d managed to hear, from a distant corner of the house, crucial words.

“What is it? Who’re you talking to? Is it—”

Mary Kay gestured for Dawn to keep back, and to be quiet.

“Is it about Dad? The verdict?”

At this point Edna Mae suddenly lost her composure, and her balance; intending to push past her brusque, annoying older daughter, as if to seek peace in another part of the house, she lost her footing, swayed, and fell heavily onto the floor with a faint little wail; Dawn tried ineffectually to prevent her from falling, and then knelt over her as she lay moaning—“Mawmaw! Mawmaw!”

Both the young children were crying now. Mary Kay told the lawyer she had to hang up and would call him back within the hour. On the floor Edna Mae lay on her side insensible, white-faced, with tight-shut eyes. Dawn continued to kneel over her crying “Mawmaw”—as Mary Kay would report to the family, as if her heart was broken.





MUD TIME


That the one—Dunphy?

Her father’s the one killed those men—

—on Death Row now—

Oh man she is homely! Face like a bulldog.


BEHIND THE SMELLY DUMPSTER she hid. She waited.

For it was a mistake to enter the 7-Eleven store on Sixteenth Street at certain times.

Too soon after school. (But Dawn would never make such a mistake.)

At other times if there were loud-voiced boys inside, or girls who knew Dawn Dunphy from school, or knew of her.

Whatever the loud voices said, she never heard.

She did not mind waiting. She was accustomed to waiting. She was accustomed to the Dumpster smells.


“WHAT WILL BECOME OF US?”—no one wished to ask.

With Edna Mae you took particular care. It had become so extreme that you could not even say “Daddy”—or “Chillicothe” (where Luther was incarcerated)—without upsetting her: Edna Mae pressing the palm of her thin blue-veined hand against her heart and her eyes swimming with pain.